


The Sleeping Soldier

by erisjade16



Category: Bucky Barnes - Fandom, Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Africa, African character, Anxiety, Anxious Bucky, Black Female, Black Panther - Freeform, Bucky Barnes - Freeform, Bucky Barnes Metal Arm, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Captain America - Freeform, Characters of color, Coma, Dora Milaje - Freeform, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, F/M, Friendship, Interracial Relationship, Language, Original Story - Freeform, Overprotective Steve, Prince T'Challa, Prostethics, Red book, Romance, Shuri - Freeform, Slow Burn, The Winter Soldier - Freeform, Wakanda, Wakandan Guard, Wakandan culture, blackinfanfiction, canon if you squint, coming out of cryo, cryo, men of color, steve rogers - Freeform, women of color
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-12 10:30:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11735202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erisjade16/pseuds/erisjade16
Summary: Zindzi, having only just returned to Wakanda from spending the last several years in America, is tasked with standing guard over the infamous Winter Soldier while he's in cryo.  With nothing much to do during the nighttime hours,  she talks to him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GetInMelanin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GetInMelanin/gifts).



> This story came about after a massive, quite in-depth, discourse regarding representation and characters of Color in the Marvel universe. This story may or may not have been written out of spite. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy. Don't be afraid to comment!

It’s quiet.  Nothing but the shadows of the lab and the muted tones of several machines linked to the cryo-chamber to monitor her ward’s vitals.  

 

The doctors come and go, even during the nighttime hours, none offering her much in the way of conversation or company. It’s eerie at times.  Lonely, most.  But, mainly, just… quiet.

 

It’s been six months since Zindzi’s return to Wakanda; 37 of those nights standing vigil over the infamous Winter Soldier. Her father had personally requested she be placed on this specific detail.  

 

To be honest, it’s felt very much like a punishment, her father’s backhanded way of getting back at her for staying away for so long.  

 

However, Z had simply smiled and thanked Prince T’Challa for the opportunity because, no matter what, no matter where she traveled, she was and would remain a dutiful Wakandan daughter.

 

She sighs now, cursing duty for the tightness in her shoulders and the ache in her lower back.  Just a few more hours and she can go home and curl up in bed.  

 

The nights seem to be getting longer of late.  She has nothing to keep her occupied.  No one to talk to.  Nothing to keep her mind busy or to keep her from going crazy from the silence.  It’s just her and her silent, sleeping ward.  

 

The Soldier.  

 

The Fist of Hydra.

 

Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes.

 

She turns her gaze toward the cryo-chamber.  Stares at the man inside, separated from her, from the outside world, by a convex sheet of perpetually frosted glass.  

 

Without much thought, Z moves closer. Comes to a stop before the chamber.  Watches the mist inside it drift and swirl about its occupant.  

 

The Soldier is handsome, even in this medically-induced state.  He's all in white. Even the bedding on which he slumbers is white, and his dark hair appears in stark contrast to his surroundings.  His left arm is missing.  As far as she knows, what little she's been made privy to, the Prince has commissioned a team to craft him a new one.

 

He looks peaceful which, to her understanding, is not something the man has been accustomed to - taken and tortured and turned into a veritable killing machine. 

 

Z lets her eyes move over his face.  Thinks, fleetingly, of what his stubble jaw might feel like under her fingertips.  Then, laughs shortly, the sound echoing in the vast lab, because she’s admiring a comatose man, a man who, not too long ago, was considered an enemy to her country.

 

“I'm going insane, I think,” she murmurs.  Reaches out a thin hand and taps lightly at the glass of the Soldier's case.  “And you, sir, get to be my sole witness.”

 

There's no response, of course, and she laughs at her own stupidity.  But, really.  What's the harm?  Talking to him would at least pass the time, right?

 

She clears her throat.  Licks her lips.  

 

“My… My name is Z,” she says, keeping her voice low as if she really means not to disturb him.  “Zindzi, really. I guess you should know that.” She sighs.  “I've been one of guards for a little over a month now and, much to my father's joy, I think I'm going crazy.”

 

She stops and watches his face for a moment.  It remains impassive.  Expressionless.  It’s fine.  She wonders what he might think, what he might look like, if he were aware enough to hear her blathering away like an idiot.  Tells herself not to care.  She's simply passing the time. 

 

“I was in America for many years,” she goes on, strangely not really sure  _ what _ to talk about now that she's actually talking to him.  “I've only recently returned home.  My father, he’s a Wakandan diplomat, he’s wanted me back for years.  I finally gave in.” 

 

She stops.  This one-sided conversation has taken a turn she isn't willing to follow.  So, she sighs again.  Takes a small step back.   Re-considers. 

  
“Anyway.  Here I am.  For how long, who really knows.  The Prince has committed himself and his resources to fixing you.  So, this is where I'll be.  It's feels rather strange, talking to you like this, but, what else can I do? Just… if I happen to go mad and divulge any embarrassing, personal secrets, maybe you could… keep them to yourself?”


	2. Chapter 2

_ At first, there is only darkness.  Perfect stillness.  Silence.   _

 

_ At some point, he’s not sure when because time means nothing to him now, a voice comes to him inside his quiet, dark place.  It’s low.  Melodic.  Comforting.  He tries to focus on it, but it’s too much effort and so he simply drifts.  Waits.   _

 

_ There's a measure of awareness which confuses him, because he's certain he’s never known this before, but even those thoughts are hazy and hard to hold on to, slipping away before they've fully formed.  So he continues to drift.  To wait. _

 

_ When the voice comes again, there's laughter in it.  Music.  It’s burnt gold and sunset red and it's beautiful, even if he can't make out the words.  Isn't even sure the words are directed at him, but it gives him something in that complete and shifting darkness.  Something bright and shimmering and, hopefully, real.   _

 

_ There's drifting.  _

 

_ Waiting. _

 

_ A voice.  Soft and low.  Teasing at the edge of what little consciousness there is left in him.  And fear is nothing.  Fear is a ghost, a thing only half-remembered.  _

 

_ There's a voice.   _

 

_ A woman, maybe.   _

 

_ Kindness in her tone.  Music and laughter in it, he thinks.  But thoughts are like smoke.  Like fog burning away in the early morning light.  Here one moment and gone the next, and it’s easy, this drifting.  This waiting.  So quiet and so still.  Is his heart still beating? _

 

_ Doesn't matter.  She’s back.  She's talking again.  And the sound of her voice, the gentle rolling cadence of it, moves around him. Stretches softly through him.  Lulls him.  Comforts him.  Keeps him company in this quiet, dark place. _

 

_ … burnt gold and sunset red… _

 

_ It’s a nice lullaby. _

 

***

 

Zindzi isn't always alone. Captain Rogers visits his friend sometimes, and on those nights she relinquishes her post in an attempt to give him some privacy.   She sticks to the shadows at the edge of the dim pool of light shining down over the Soldier, close though far enough away so as not to intrude.

 

The Captain is unfailingly polite, effortlessly kind, despite the worry Z can see darkening his blue eyes.  The weight of that worry sits heavy on his broad shoulders.  She can tell he is a man accustomed to his fair share of it.

 

“Doesn't this get boring,” he asks out of the blue one night nearly three whole months into her detail. 

 

At first, Z isn't certain he’s even talking to her.  Thinks, perhaps, he’s talking to his friend, but then he shifts and his gaze finds her amid the surrounding shadows.  He's got his hands shoved into the pockets of his slacks.  A dark blue jacket open over a crisp white shirt.  

 

“Pardon me?”

 

“This,” the Captain goes on.  Lifts his shoulders and rolls his eyes to indicate the room.   “It’s just you here at night, right?” His voice is strong and sure.  Friendly.  

 

“Yes,” she replies after a moment.  “Just me.”

 

Captain Rogers nods.  Turns his head to look at the cryo-chamber though his body is still angled toward her.  

 

“‘S’gotta get lonesome, huh?  All this quiet.  Just you and Bucky, and he’s probably no good on the conversation end.”

 

He’s joking, she’s thinks.  Or attempting to, at least.  Trying to draw her out. His tone is light, but there's something about it, a sadness he doesn’t bother to hide.  Or, perhaps, doesn't care to.

 

She doesn't move.  Keeps her hands folded behind her back.

 

“It’s not so bad now.”

 

“Now?”

 

She hadn't meant to let that slip.  She glances away.  Feels her cheeks warming a bit at her inadvertent admission. “Yes.  Now.”

 

He regards her in silence.  Then,  “What’s changed?”

 

“I… talk… to him.  Your friend.  Bucky.”  The name feels strange on her tongue.  In her head she refers to him as The Soldier.  Out loud, she calls him ‘mngani wam’.   _ My friend. _

 

She thinks the Captain’s eyes go a little wide before a small, crooked smile begins at the corner of his mouth.  

 

“Is that part of the job?”

 

He's teasing her.  Z smiles back.  Shakes her head a bit.  “No,” she says.  “But, I figure there's no harm in it.  He can't talk back.”

 

The Captain's smile drops and Z realizes immediately that she has possibly hurt him.  Reminded him of the pain of the situation. 

 

“Forgive me, Captain,” she says, straightening her spine and squeezing her hands together.

 

He blinks at her.  Sucks in a slow breath.  “It’s fine.  And, please, call me Steve.”

 

“Steve.  My name is Zindzi.  Z.”

 

“Z.” He nods and she can see him committing the information to memory.  “Thank you.  For talking to him. For keeping him company.”  

 

She can tell he means it.

 

She doesn't know what to say.  Doesn't think that a response of  ‘ _ simply doing my job _ ’ is something he needs to hear just then, so she nods.  Clears her throat and lets her gaze drift away.

 

Silence fills the space around them, a bit more comfortable now.  She watches him watch his friend.  Listens to the quiet hum emitting from the cryo-chamber.  The muted notes of the machines monitoring the Soldier's heart rate and brain activity.  

 

“So, what do you talk about?”

 

This time, it’s she who smiles. 


	3. Chapter 3

She gets used to never being told anything, at least not the day to day updates regarding the Soldier’s condition.  She is his guard and, therefore, not privy to much else outside of her duties as his nighttime protector.

 

For the most part, she’s not bothered by this.  For the most part, she simply watches and listens.  Learns the things she wants to know through observation.  Thankfully,  no one seems bothered by her presence.  Half the time she's sure they’re not even aware she’s there, which is exactly how it’s supposed to be.      

In a strange way, Z considers the Soldier to be something like a friend.  Her late night musings have allowed her to divulge some things about herself she may not have shared otherwise, especially with a man she doesn't know.  The verbal purging has left her feeling much better than she has in a long, long time and she’s grateful for this, for him, her unknowing confidante.  

 

In the months since his arrival, there have been teams of Wakandan scientist tasked with “fixing” the Soldier.  Various Doctors and Technicians assign to build an arm to replace the one that was destroyed.  All sorts of Specialists given the very serious responsibility of healing his brain, to rid him forever of the words which were implanted long before he’d set foot in Wakanda.  Words which had often turned him into a beast, a dangerous, nearly unstoppable animal.  A weapon of mass destruction. 

 

He’d had a life before this.  A long and quite painful one, according to the handful of conversations she’s shared with The Captain.  Steve.   She wonders, often, what kind of man he'd been.  What kind of man he’d become, if given the opportunity.  Finds herself thinking far too much about the sleeping soldier, even when she’s not on duty.

 

Six months in and everything changes.  

 

The air feels different.  Static.  Sharp.  Zindzi moves quickly through the halls of the Med Labs.  Walks with purpose, her shoulders back and chin up as her eyes scan her surroundings.    

 

There's so much movement tonight, more than usual, and it’s a bit unnerving.  This hour is normally the time when everything quiets down for the night, when the scientists and various medical professionals begin to leave.   But they're still here and the halls of the Med Lab seem to be bustling with noise and activity.

 

She wonders if there's something she’s missed, if something has happened she hasn't been made aware of, and her heart kicks inside her chest when thoughts of the Soldier sweep through her mind.  

 

She picks up her pace. Comes stalking into the cryo lab just as her daytime counterpart, Sekheli, turns to see her.  The other woman nods, moving quickly forward and curling a thin hand under Zindzi’s arm, using her grip and her long, lean body to move Z back a few paces.  

 

Beyond Sekheli’s shoulder, there are more than a handful of people dressed all in white crowded around where the cryo-chamber should be. Should be.  It’s gone and Z’s stomach twists.

 

“He’s… gone...?” She doesn't want to think about how much that actually terrifies her.

 

“They've woken him,” Sekheli says lowly, her dark eyes moving over Z’s face.  “Nearly two hours ago.”

 

Z’s eyes snap back to the crowd of doctors, excitement and anxiety twining through her stomach like dried vines. Sehkeli’s fingers around her arm keep her steady.  Hold her in place.  Stop her from rushing over and shoving through the group of professionals to… Hell, she doesn't know what, but she knows she wants very badly to just  _ see  _ him. 

 

“Hold your post, Zindzi,” Sekheli advises.  “You will be called if you are needed.”

 

The older woman’s fingers remain on her arm, squeezing lightly through her leathers, and Z realizes Sekheli is watching her closely.  Realizes she’s not necessarily behaving in the manner befitting her place.  

 

Z takes a deep breath.  Sets her shoulders and straightens her spine. 

 

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

Sekheli is silent a long moment.  Then, with a nod, she releases Z arm, turns on her heel and is gone.

 

Z stands watching.  Waiting.  Nervous and just a little unsure.  The setting sun casts the room in vibrant shades of red and gold.  She breathes slow and deep and watches the shadows shift across the floor.  

 

After a time there's a shift in the crowd and Z catches a glimpse of her ward.  He’s sitting on the edge of a table, dressed still in the white he’d been wearing in the cryo-chamber.  And, he’s awake.  He looks wary and almost as uncertain as she feels, but he’s awake.  Alive and unharmed.  

 

Z smiles.  Feels the air moving much more easily through her lungs.  And then his eyes, blue eyes, bright and clear in his handsome face, meet hers and the room seems to shift under her feet.    

 

****

 

The first hour after waking is … calm.  Calm is not something to which Bucky has ever grown accustomed.  Calm hadn't always meant peaceful.  So he sits at the edge of the examination table and simply watches.  Waits for the orders to come.  For the pain.  For more than just… this. 

 

It doesn't take long for the haze of cryo-sleep to lift.  Thoughts, fractured and disjointed at first, eventually become easier to hold on to and, in his mind, he goes through what he knows to be true.  

 

He’s in Wakanda.

 

These are doctors moving around him.  Talking to him.  Asking him questions. 

 

His arm is still gone; there’s nothing below the few inches of metal that protrude from the joint of his shoulder, which is covered in some sort of black quarter sleeve.   Oddly, there's no pain now.

 

Steve is nearby, talking with a very stern looking woman.

 

And… something… Something else is missing that he can't quite put his finger on, but there's an empty spot inside him where that something should be, and he kind of misses his quiet dark place. 

 

Too many people.  Too much movement.  Too much light and sound.  Too much to take in and try to understand at once.

 

His flesh fingers grip the edge of the metal table between his dangling legs.  He closes his eyes.  Takes a slow, deep breath in through his nose and tries to keep focused.  

 

“Are you all right, Sgt. Barnes?”

 

It’s one of the doctor’s.  A man with a softly rumbling, kind voice.   

 

Bucky opens his eyes.  Looks at the man.  A thought flutters through the murkiness still clouding his mind.  

 

_ Smile.  A smile sets others at ease.  Reassures them that you mean no harm. _

 

He tries it, but the gesture feels strange.  Foreign.  He’s certain it looks more like a grimace.  The doctor doesn't appear fazed.

 

He steps closer and Bucky fights the urge to lean away.

 

“Are you feeling any pain?  Any discomfort?”  

 

The doctor is holding a small, square device tucked in against the curve of his forearm.  He can hear electricity humming through it.  He knows the word for it.  Can't find it in the mess of his brain just now.

 

When he opens his mouth to speak, to respond, his voice comes out low and rough from so much time going unused.

 

“I'm fine.”

 

Steve finally steps away from his conversation.  Moves in close and rests a big, heavy hand on Bucky’s shoulder.  He feels it, but the feeling is distant, muffled, as if his body is wrapped in a thin layer of cotton. 

 

“Welcome back, pal.” Steve looks bright-eyed.  Happy, even.  Like an over-sized puppy.  

 

“What's going on?”

 

Steve smile grows wider as he puffs out his chest and the look is so very different than the last time he’d seen his friend.  Back then, they'd both been battered and bruised.  Physically and mentally torn to shreds.   Worn and rung out. 

 

“Progress “ Steve says.  

 

_ Progress. _

 

He isn't supposed to be awake.  Not unless they've figured out…

 

“The words,” Bucky asks.  Feels the gravel in his own voice.  Clears his throat again.  “The triggers.  They're gone?”  

 

He doesn't believe it.  Doesn't trust in hoping for it to be so.  Those words are dangerous, deadly.  Imbedded into the very core of his being, the complicated web of his brain.

 

“They think they've found a way.  And they've even got you a new arm ready for you.  Well, almost.  There's tests still.  And… surgery...”

 

Steve smooths his hands over his hips and hooks his thumbs in the front pockets of his slacks.   Looks a little flustered, as if even he realizes how quickly this is all moving.

 

“But, one step at a time, OK?.  There's someone here I think is looking forward to meeting you.”

 

The blond takes another step back.  Turns and moves his head this way and that, looking for someone, it seems.   His back straightens beneath the cut of his jacket and he glances at Bucky.

 

“Hold on a sec,” he says before he  steps away, excusing himself as he slips through the little crowd milling around them. 

 

Bucky sits.  Waits. Tries to understand what’s happening.  Tries to wrap his cloudy and muddled thoughts around what it means to have the triggers gone.  Can't really imagine…  In truth, he'd pretty much resigned himself to being in cryo for the rest of his life, however long that meant for a man such as himself.  

 

It’s all so much.  He feels himself slipping again.  Finds himself yearning for darkness once more.  The shadows are rising.  He feels sick.  Unsteady.  He wants to go back. 

 

But Steve is back, loud and suddenly  _ there _ , and Bucky looks up sharply, his focus shifting and going hazy at the edges.  

 

“Buck, you OK?”

 

The doctors seem to turn as one unit, all eyes moving to him, and anxiety slithers along his skin under their watchful gazes.

 

“Fine,” Bucky replies, voice coming out louder, harsher, than intended.  He forces himself to sit taller, to focus on Steve’s face.  “I'm fine.”

 

Steve doesn't seem convinced but he only nods and moves aside, allowing a young woman to take the place next to him.

 

Bucky looks her over.  Wonders if this is someone he should know.  She’s tall, dressed in black leather that looks very much like some sort of uniform with intricate stitch work around the high collar, over her shoulders and down both arms.  There are guns at both hips.  She’s staring at him with large, inquisitive dark eyes.  Her skin is the color of freshly turned earth, smooth and beautiful beneath the wash of bright light falling over them.  She looks strong.  Capable.  And, admittedly, lovely.

 

“Bucky, this is Zindzi.  Z.  She’s been your nighttime guard for the past six months.”

 

Bucky blinks at him. Lets his gaze drift to the young woman again.  Steve’s relaxed body language, the broad smile plastered across his face, makes Bucky think that this fact is of some importance.

 

He nods to her.  Zindzi.  Z.

 

“Uh, thank you.”

 

The woman smiles and it’s soft and charming.

 

“It’s been… a pleasure, Sgt. Barnes.  Bucky.” She laughs shortly.  Shifts her booted feet.  Folds her hands behind her back and stands tall.  Almost proud.

 

Her voice…. Music... Laughter like low, tinkling bells…

 

It hits him like a well-placed punch to the gut.  The room around him abruptly comes into startlingly bright, clear focus.  There’s only her and the sudden warmth fanning out through his chest and rippling along his skin. And this woman, this woman he’s never met before, feels strangely, impossibly familiar.   It’s  _ her _ voice he’d heard in the darkness for so long. 

 

“It’s you.”

 

She blinks at him, confusion written clearly across her pretty face and in the deep furrow of her delicate brow.

 

“Me?”

 

“You,” Bucky breathes, his tone mirroring his own disbelief.  “I heard you when I was in cryo.”

 

Her eyes go wide for a moment.  She lifts a thin hand and presses the heel of it into her temple.  “OK, well, if that’s true, then I would ask you not to hold any of of what you heard against me. You agreed.  At least, I imagined you did.”

 

She laughs again, nervous now, but he thinks there's a bit of relief softening the corners of her eyes.

 

It’s her.  His burnt gold and sunset red amid the shifting quiet.  

 

And when Bucky smiles this time, it isn't forced.  It feels right and real and cryo-sleep doesn't seem very appealing anymore.

 

“Zindzi,” he murmurs to himself.  “Z.”

 

****


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surprises for Zindzi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, thank you to GetInMelanin for the Xhosa translations and for being my lovely and patient beta!!!

Z reluctantly returns to her post.  Reluctantly because now that the Soldier -  _ Bucky, his name is Bucky  _ \- is awake, she’s intrigued.  It’s inappropriate,  she knows this, but she’d liked the light in his eyes, the recognition which seemed to spark in them upon the Captain’s introduction.  As if he’d really recognized her.  As if her voice inside the silence of his medically-induced slumber had truly meant something to him.

 

She watches him now, watches the doctors moving about him.  Sees the unease he’s trying to hide and wants to go to him.  To do what, she isn’t so sure, but she's been advised to hold her post.  

 

Z can’t imagine what this is like for him - suddenly awake after the long silence, the darkness.  At least, what she assumes to be silence and darkness.   She wonders if he dreamed and, if so, what he dream about.  

 

He says he’d heard her and she thinks she believes that, though now she wonders how much of her long-winded diatribes he can recall.   Remembers those sad nights when she’d wallowed in regret and self-pity.  

Funny, the only time she’s opened her mouth to speak of her past, thinking the person with whom she’s sharing said information couldn’t possibly remember, and he might very well remember it all.  

 

Z doesn’t know if she should be embarrassed or amused. 

 

She’s settled so far inside herself, become so lost in her own wandering thoughts that she doesn’t immediately notice the shift in air when Prince T’Challa arrives, flanked by two members of the Dora Milaje.  Everyone in the room makes way,bowing to and greeting their beloved Prince, who smiles warmly and stretches out a hand to shake all in turn.

 

After all have been greeted, or at the very least, spoken to, the Prince and his most trusted Dora finally approach the spot where Bucky and Captain Rogers are waiting.

 

Since her return, she’s heard all the stories regarding what had transpired after the U.N. bombing and the King’s death, the subsequent violence and confusion, all of which, somehow, leading to Bucky and the Captain coming under the Prince’s protection.  

 

Admittedly, Z had found the stories intriguing.   Fascinating.  A cadre of superheroes battling it out on American soil, the Prince among them, seeking justice and retribution for his slain father.  

 

The Captain readily clasps the Prince’s hand when he offers it.  Bucky,  though still a bit shaky and unsteady, pushes off of the examination table and stands tall before the Prince.  

 

There’s something  about The Soldier now, something in the hard set of his shoulders, a wariness in his eyes, more so now than had been only moments before, and Z’s heart does a funny little something inside her chest.  She thinks Bucky flinches when the Prince takes his outstretched hand.  

 

Words are exchanged.  A few of the doctors join their little group, and the Prince seamlessly splits his attentions between them, Bucky, and the Captain, though Bucky remains silent and the Captain only seems to be nodding his head in understanding. 

 

Z, as always, watches.   Observes. Keeps quiet and still as she’s been trained to do, unable to hear anything more than a low rumble of voices from where’s she’s standing, the shuffle of shoes across the floor as more doctors and technicians move in and out of the vast room.  

 

She wants to know what’s going on, wants to know more about The Soldier and what’s to happen with him moving forward,  however, she’ll know nothing until that information is provided to her.  If it’s provided at all.  He’s awake now, which, reasonably, means her responsibility as his guard is ended.  

 

The prospect of no more quiet nights,  no more thoughtful silences, looms ahead of her.  Uncertainty, because even if she hadn't initially intended to be here, there was at least a sense of purpose to it all, something Z hadn’t had a great deal of recently.   

 

The job was one she’d accepted reluctantly and here she is, feeling slightly unsettled at the loss of the position.   

 

She watches the lights change beyond the windows.  Watches the late evening sky shift from deep purple to starlit black.  Listens to the hum of voices swirling around her.  

 

At last the Prince and the Dora separate from the Soldier and the Captain.  They turn as one, though instead of taking their leave, Z is almost startled to find them moving in her direction.  

 

She immediately squares her shoulders, clasps her hands together tightly behind her hips and casts her gaze respectfully to the floor.  

 

Her heart has picked up a few extra beats, not having expected to possibly be personally addressed by the Prince.  She’s grown accustomed to the shadows,  of being overlooked.  

 

The Prince’s voice drifts over her, polite and smooth. 

 

“Good evening, Zindzi.”

 

She bows her head.  Takes a hand from behind her back to accept the one Prince T’Challa is offering.  

 

“Good evening,  _ Nkosi  _ T’Challa.”

 

She lifts her eyes to meet his gaze.  Keeps her pose, returning her hands to their proper position.  Straightens her spine and raises her chin minutely. 

 

“I have heard many good things about you.  Captain Rogers thinks very highly of you.”

 

Z thinks she blinks.  She looks more fully at the Prince.   Glances briefly in the direction of the Captain.

 

“I… I’ve done nothing special, sir.”

 

Prince T’Challa chuckles, and she catches a glimpse of white teeth between his parted lips.

 

“Captain Rogers might disagree with your assessment.  He’s very appreciative of the way you've cared for his friend.  Kept him company,  as it were.”

 

Zindzi can feel her cheeks warming.  The skin above her uniform collar feels hot and tight.  She isn’t sure what to say, so she simply nods.

 

Prince T’Challa continues.  

 

“I am of a mind to keep Sergeant Barnes… under observation.  It would seem fitting that you be the one to do so.  In fact, I’m releasing the others and you will replace them as the Sergeant’s round-the-clock detail.”

 

Zindzi doesn’t know what to say.  Isn’t actually certain that she’s hearing the Prince correctly.

 

The Prince, for his part, takes her silence as hesitation.  His brow furrows and he inclines his head in her direction, his voice low and sincere when he speaks again.

 

“Be assured, you will be compensated accordingly.”

 

“No! I-My apologies, Your Highness.  This is… just unexpected.  Forgive me.  I am grateful for this opportunity.”  

 

She doesn’t think she could feel any more silly or unprofessional than she does in this moment.  

 

The Dora are watching her intently.

 

The Prince smiles again.  “Very well. Go home.  Gather whatever necessities you might require.  You will be staying with the Captain and Sergeant Barnes until such time as your services are no longer needed.”

 

The Prince takes a small step in her directions, says lowly, quietly.  “I ask that you report any change or concern directly to me.”

 

She nods again, her mind working to catch up with this sudden and surprising turn of events.

 

Twenty-four hour detail.  

 

She’s just been promoted.  


	5. Chapter 5

“You all right in there, Buck?”

 

“I’m fine, Steve.”

 

“...Okay...”

 

Bucky has been in the shower for twenty minutes.   Steve has checked on him every two.  

 

He shifts until his head is completely back under the spray of water.  It’s nice.  The shower is enclosed in glass on three sides, tall and wide enough that he doesn’t feel cramped or caged in.  The water, just bordering on too hot, is helping.  He can feel his muscles loosening.  Can feel the misty remnants of cryo draining away.  

 

Waking up.  

 

This is what waking up is supposed to feel like, not the abrupt shove into consciousness he’d never really gotten used to.   Back then it had always been a shock, one he’d had no choice but to get over.  Push through.  

 

It’s … nice here, in Wakanda.  At least from what little he’s seen.   Bright and, thankfully, calm.  The doctors have been kind.  Seemingly concerned, even.  He knows it’s their job, Prince T’Challa having brought them in, however,  he’s appreciative.

 

He can hear Steve’s shuffling footsteps outside the bathroom door again.  He pulls his head from beneath the shower spray, water running into his eyes.  Waits for Steve’s voice through the wood.

 

“Buck?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Z’s just arrived.  Yell if you need us.”

 

_Zindzi._

 

Bucky’s flesh fingers curl against the smooth, tiled shower wall and he bites down on the edges of his tongue.   

 

Zindzi.  His guard.

 

She’s not a soldier, though he can tell she's been trained. Not Dora Milaje, either.  

 

She's… different.  He imagines he can still hear her voice, the traces of an accent which sharpen some of her consonants.   He thinks she’s probably spent some time in America.  

 

It feels strange to remember someone he’s never met.  No, ‘remember’ isn’t really the word.  Remembering gives an impression of something true and concrete.  Real.  

 

No, he doesn’t remember Zindzi.  He knows nothing of her outside of the sound of her voice, a voice that, somehow, reached him in the darkness, sets him at ease and softens some of his sharp edges.  It’s strange and somewhat off-putting, this odd pull Bucky feels toward this complete stranger.

 

“I’ll be there in a minute, Steve.  Thanks.”

 

There’s a pause, then a half murmured acknowledgement, followed by the muffled shuffling of Steve shoes as he moves away again.

 

Steve is worried, despite the hope glinting in his friend’s pale eyes.  Worried about Bucky adjusting.  Worried about what will happen now that he’s out of cryo, which they haven’t discussed yet.

 

Steve’s been carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders for longer than any one person should.  Bucky thinks about this as he scrubs himself clean with his flesh hand, bending and twisting to compensate for his missing limb.  

 

A wave of regret winds through him at the thought of the lives which have been lost, all the friendships shattered in the wake of promises they’d made to each other almost a century ago.

 

Death would have been better, he thinks while he’s drying off.  Manages to slip into the t-shirt and blue-jeans Steve has laid out for him.  Decides to go bare-foot rather than wrestle with the laces of the boots one-handed.  Death would have been preferable to all the chaos and destruction.

 

Finally fully dressed, he leaves the quiet of his bedroom, a spare room in the apartment the Prince has provided for them.  Moves down the long hall, drawn by the voices he can hear ahead of him.  One male - Steve, low and even; the other soft and lilting - burnt gold and sunset red.  Finds the two standing on opposite sides of a marble-topped island, three bright ceramic mugs at its center.  

 

 

Both turn to look at him when he appears in the kitchen doorway.  

 

Bucky can smell coffee.  Freshly-baked bread.

 

“Heya, Buck,” Steve greets, relief softening the lines around his mouth.  “How ya feeling?”

 

“I’m fine, Steve.  Promise.  You don’t hafta keep asking,” Bucky replies,  smiling to offset the impatient sound of his voice.  

 

Steve blinks at him, then lets out a low laugh.  “You’re right.  No more mother hen.”

 

A low snort of a laugh comes from Z and they both look at her.  She stares back with wide eyes.  “I’m sorry.”

 

Steve angles his body in her direction, smirking as he lifts his arms and crosses them over his broad chest.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

Z, still clad in her uniform leathers, guns strapped to her hips, folds her own arms behind her back respectfully.  Bows her head and gazes back at him from beneath the fringe of a set of long, delicate lashes.  

 

“Apologies, but, you’ve told me your stories, Captain.  You appear to be a natural caregiver.” Her gaze flicks to Bucky and there’s humor glinting in the depths of her dark-chocolate eyes.  “I do not believe you capable of _not_ ‘mother henning’.”

 

Steve huffs, shaking his head.  “Ok, wise-aleck.”

 

Z laughs lowly, smiling more fully now.  Turns her attention to Bucky and the full weight of her gaze sends tendrils of warmth curling inside his stomach.  He’a amazed by such a strong and visceral reaction.

 

“We were discussing dinner, Sergeant Barnes.  Are you hungry?”

 

“Bucky,” he says.  “Call me… Bucky.”

 

 _Bucky_ still feels very far from him, but Sergeant Barnes feels too formal.  Too close to the “Soldier”.

 

Z nods.  “Bucky, then.”

 

He lifts a hand and rubs it over the back of his neck, the damp strands of his hair slipping over his skin.   His name on her lips makes him feel good.  Not so… off-kilter.

 

“It might be good for you to start with something small,” Z continues.  “Something light.”

 

Steve moves to the fridge.  Opens the shiny door and pulls out a large bowl.  

“There’s some leftover stew.”

 

“I’m not hungry.  Thank you.”

 

Z looks at him.  Brings a hand around and uses the tips of her thin fingers to gently push one of the coffee mugs in his direction. Their eyes meet and, again, she watches him from beneath her lashes.  

 

She smiles, just the simple tick of one corner of her mouth, and the warmth returns.  He finds himself reaching out to take the mug.  Curls his fingers around it and brings it to his lips.  She smiles wider, seemingly satisfied with herself.   With him.

 

“Is anyone gonna eat?” Steve ask, sounding flustered.   He sets the bowl on the counter. Braces his hands on either side of it.  

 

“I could eat, Captain.”

 

Steve appears pleased at this.  He turns.   Grabs a couple bowls from the cabinets above the sink.  Rummages around for cutlery.  

 

“You sure you don’t want anything, Buck?”

 

His eyes find Z’s across the little island.  Hers are glinting in the low light, soft and expectant.

 

“Maybe I could eat.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to GetinMelanin for the Xhosa translations!


End file.
